I take a long, deliberate bite of the juicy sandwich, waiting to see if he gets uncomfortable. Instead, he seems to take a cue from me and loads his fork with coleslaw.
"I did talk with her, yes." I catch his gaze again. "That's why I was so worried when I found out that someone had been messing with the sauna, placing the jacket in there. I'd heard the story." I put a forkful of coleslaw into my mouth, taking a moment to savor the explosion of flavor playing at my taste buds. "That is remarkable," I blurt out. "It's nothing like the kind I get in Connecticut."
"Kind of like the sweet tea up there, I'll bet," he jokes.
Sensing that we're building a solid rapport, I push into that connection. "What can you tell me about Jordan? I'm trying to figure her out by reading her book, but it's a little difficult."
He stares. "You're saying that's a book she left behind?"
I nod. "It's on the short side, but it's a book nonetheless."
"She told me she worked for a newspaper back in Ohio. I didn't realize she was writing a book, too." Absently, he takes a huge bite of his slider, leaving only a small corner behind.
"It's an interesting story," I say. "About a murder."
He looks genuinely startled. "You think this book might have something to do with her death?"
Even though it's difficult for me to read people, I could swear that Henry is just as blindsided by Jordan's book as I was. If he didn't see it in the gazebo, which he'd cleaned before I came, then when had it been placed in that drawer?
I pick up my slider. "It's hard to say for sure if they're even linked. In Jordan's story, an older guy is preying on a young girl—maybe like her—but I haven't gotten to the end yet." I give a phony laugh, but it comes out hoarse. "I have to prioritize writing my own book first."
"Of course you do." He draws himself up, wiping his fingers with a napkin. "Well, I'd better be on my way so you can write. I appreciate your letting me join you, though."
I'd hoped to talk with him about my plotline, but I must have inadvertently signaled that I had to get back to writing. "Sure," I say. "Thanks for bringing the food. Tell Cleo it was wonderful."
He stands, towering over me. "I will. She'll be delighted you enjoyed it." He gestures toward the half-empty storage bowls. "Just get those containers to me later—there's no rush."
I feel foolish for using my time to question him about Jordan, when what I needed most was his reader viewpoint. I shouldn't have let Quincy's sinister words blur my vision of who Henry actually is—a helpful man who's supported me at every step.
He leads the way downstairs, slowing as we approach the back door. He stares straight ahead and points, so I quickly halt by his side.
The back porch light has come on, and the wind is toying with a note that's been taped to the outside of the door glass.
Henry gives me a questioning look, and I nod. "Just don't touch it," I say.
In three giant strides, he moves toward the door, throwing it open so we can both read the note. A strip of duct tape has been affixed to the top of a sheet of notebook paper.
The outdoor bulb bathes us in a stream of harsh light as we struggle to make out each word.
"I'm a fan of your books," Henry reads. "It's a pity my star didn't rise as high as yours." He squints at the signature scrawled on the bottom. "Is that Mary? Or Matilda?"
I peer closer, and a current of recognition shoots through my body. "Mariah," I say. "It has to be Mariah Cloud, the woman who showed up at my house the other night. I thought I saw her car in town today, too. I'm afraid she might be my stalker."
EIGHTEEN
Henry silently opens the back door, gesturing for me to step inside. Once he's joined me, he slides the chain lock. Taking up pacing by the pool table, he says, "Didn't you tell me that Mariah was an author, too? Why would she destroy her own career by stalking you? Doesn't she know she'll be all over the news for something like that?"
As I try to work through his jumbled questions in my head, his comment about the news strikes a chord. "Maybe that's the point," I say slowly. "You'd be surprised at the lengths authors will go to in order to be noticed. Have you heard of review bombing? Some authors drop scathing reviews of their competition at online reader sites. Others have publicly attacked readers who've given them low reviews." I take a deep breath. "Then there's the mystery writer who bragged online that she could kill someone and no one would ever know. When her husband suddenly up and died, it didn't take long for the police to figure out she'd murdered him."
"Remind me not to run in author circles," Henry says wryly. "Should I really be hanging out with you?"
I could ask myself the same question of him, but I tamp that thought down. "I know those are extreme cases, but I'm worried Mariah might fall into that category," I continue. "She reacted in a hostile way when I gave her an honest critique years ago. Maybe she's been harboring resentment all this time."
"But if she's your stalker, how could she have gotten inside to mess with the sauna or tape that note in the elevator?" he asks.
Recalling Hope's assumption that the cabin's keycode would be changed periodically, I ask, "You reset the keycode regularly, don't you?"
He looks chagrined. "Truth be told, I haven't changed it since they installed it. I keep meaning to make time to do it, but since he's not renting the place out, I didn't figure it was top priority."
I shake my head. "Maybe Mariah got hold of the code from someone...possibly someone who stayed here. This cabin is used for author retreats, right?" I was jumping from one wild conjecture to the next. What implausible string of events would allow Mariah Cloud to foresee that I'd travel to this very cabin, or to get in touch with some random author who'd once come here?
I suppose Mariah herself could've attended an author retreat, but that wouldn't make any sense, because she wasn't even with Thorvald Media.
Pressing my hand to my head, I will my thoughts to still.
Henry gives me a concerned look. "Listen, I don't want you sitting here worried, because then you won't be able to write." He leans against the edge of the pool table. "Tell you what—I'll call Roger about Mariah's note. I can stick around if he wants to drop by and pick it up tonight."
Despite my irritation that he never reset the keycode, I'm thankful for his offer. Mariah could be lurking around in the darkness, even though her car is nowhere in sight. "I'd appreciate that," I say slowly.
My gaze shifts to the paper flapping in the night breeze. A staggering sense of relief washes over me. "You know what? Mariah signed the note, so we finally have a name to put with my stalker. I can't figure out how she managed to track me down in Greenwich, much less follow me to West Virginia, but I've seen her in Cedar Gap at least three times now. This note seals the deal—it's an open-and-shut stalker case. I should let Micah know, so he can update his friend at the F.B.I. who's looking into things."
"Good idea." Henry pulls his phone from his pocket. "I'll stay out here and call Roger, and you can go into one of the rooms down here and call Micah. Then we can figure out the next steps." He gives me an intense look. "And I don't plan on leaving you alone for one minute, even if I have to sleep on this pool table."
Micah sounds relieved when I tell him about Mariah's note. He assures me he'll point both his F.B.I. friend and the Greenwich police in Mariah's direction. "I'm sure you'll be ready to get home soon," he says. "Robin can book your return flight—it's getting late there, right? You can just call her in the morning. We'll send you business class, all expenses paid by Thorvald Media." His voice roughens. "Alex, I'm so sorry you've had to go through this. I wouldn't wish a stalker on any of my authors."
The way he calls me by name and refers to me as one of his authors touches me. I've heard that some editors keep their authors at arm's length, but Micah has always been fully invested in me—not just in the books I can create for him, but in my overall career.
